


Poems & short stories

by WittyPiglet



Category: Original Work
Genre: Poetry, Random & Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WittyPiglet/pseuds/WittyPiglet
Summary: Just some of my short stories and poems that just don't really fit anywhere else.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. My Crow

**Author's Note:**

> This was written based on three nouns: _despair, attic, crow_

Quiet despair wraps around my throat, cutting off air, suffocating me in the slowest, most painful way it could. Silent tears trail from the corner of my eyes, leaving tracks in their wake. I’m alone, always alone in this dusty old attic with no one but an eyeless crow.

It wasn’t his fault, he got the short end of the stick in life. He couldn’t see and I couldn’t breathe. I came to love this blind creature and, I hope, he loves me in turn.

Of course he couldn’t, I knew this already, he was just a bird.

A bird that sat with me by the cracked attic window and stared out it as if he could see his fellow birds flying.

My crow couldn’t fly.

Another cruelty in this unjust world.

His wing deformed as if it had been broken and never truly healed. I assumed from what took his eyes. My crow was trapped, trapped in this attic and alone. Alone like me. I couldn’t set him free, he’d never survive as a flightless, blind bird. Easy prey for the alleys. I brought him food and drink, crusts on cracked china, water from the tap. He seemed appreciative, at the very least.

The despair lifted a fraction as I sat in my attic with my scarred friend. He couldn’t leave me like the others, he couldn’t live without me.

That’s what I told myself at least. He was my crow and I would never let him go.

He’s gone now. Buried in a shoe box in the garden.

I gave him a funeral, spoke to him, left some crust and water by the grave.

I no longer visit the attic, I sit in the garden with him, next to the dying azaleas. Rain would pour down upon me, but I wouldn’t let it move me. Wind howled around, I wouldn’t budge. Snow and still I sat beside the now covered grave site. When the winter left, a single azalea was left to bloom above the carcass of a scavenger. My scavenger.

Suddenly, the world didn’t seem so dim and my despair began to lift once more.

I could finally breathe.


	2. Winter comes and winter goes

Winter comes, and winter goes.

With it, the snow and ice. Trees shedding their warm leaves. Water frozen and the icy chill sneaking through all the tiny cracks of one’s homes.

The chill sneaks up your spine and down your legs, encroaching upon your fingertips and tippy toes. It shrouds you in a constant dreariness and all you can do is retreat under your over sized covers, clutching your soothing and burning mug of cocoa.

The wind shaking the windows, howling outside in the tundra of winter.

Screaming, thrashing.

Silence and, suddenly, the sun shines down on the clear, sparkling ground.

Innocent snow covered every inch of the once tainted world.

It’s beautiful in reality. So beautiful, it begets tears. It lasts only a short time.

Soon, too soon, it’s time to say goodbye to our winter wonderland.

Winter comes and now it’s time to go.

Winter leaves and with it the snow and ice, revealing the greenery and colors of spring beneath.


	3. Your mind, your prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this during my teens, when my depression was at a bad point and I felt so alone.

Run, run, run....run.

It's all you can do.

Run, run, run and run.

Never an end.

Run, run, run, running.

Who am I? Where am I?

Run, run, run, run.

There is no escape, you'll be trapped till your dying day.

Run, run, run, run.

You'll always be running, trying to escape.

Keep running child, you'll never leave.

Someone help me please.

Running, farther and farther.

Running won't help, not anymore.

You can't leave

Run, run, run, run.

Someone....anyone....please....

Run, run, run, run.

Screaming. Yelling. Cursing.

It's all around me, smothering and choking me.

Why doesn't anyone help me?

Run, run, run, run.

You are in a place where no one can hear your....

cries...

screams...

whispers...

yells....

shouts...

You're running again.

Run, run, run, run.

Never shall you escape.

Run, run, run, run.

Always running.

Forever.

Run, run, run, run.

Someone, I'm begging you to see, to hear and feel me.

Run, run, run, run.

No one can hear you.

Keep running child.

You're stuck here.

Till your dying day, you'll remain.

Run, run, run, run.

My sanity is slipping.

Running....

Run all you want child

I trip.

You can't escape your own mind.

My mind?

No, it's not my mind anymore.

It's my prison of four walls, made of steel and concrete.

Till my dying day,

I'll remain.


	4. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another poem when I was feeling 'downer than down'. It was written a few years after 'Your mind, your prison'. I was probably about 17.

I'm fighting and I'm losing, 

trying my hardest to be strong, 

I'm falling and I'm failing, 

being proven that I'm wrong.

I'm screaming and I'm choking, 

falling to my knees and crying, 

I'm lying and I'm pretending,

but deep down I know I'm dying.

I'm running and I'm frightened, 

I have already lost this fight.

I'm slowing and I'm stopping, 

giving it the greatest delight.


End file.
